Nomad: A Story from The Reels

by Brian Ewing

  “You want your fucking ass beaten, you goddamn liar?” Troy rhetorically asked. “Andrick Wesley, I have tried my damnedest to let bygones be bygones, but you are asking for a visit from the old Troy, and honestly, I have been waiting for the day.”

  Troy cracked his knuckles and dipped his head slightly, resembling the face of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Unfortunately for Troy, Andrick was not the same kid that took the abuse he once had. The jock approached, invading Andrick’s personal space, with his right arm pulled back, ready to wail on Andrick. Andrick knew at that moment, it looked like option number two was the route that would have to be taken. He gripped the jagged rock he had been holding behind his back the entire time. The rock while thin, held substantial weight. It even had one naturally thinner end to it as if formed by ancestors of prehistoric times to be used as a tool in that very moment. As Troy was mere feet from Andrick, Andrick remained in place, waiting for the signal he was in striking range. Troy took his left hand and grabbed wildly to latch onto Andrick’s shirt collar, so he could pull the lanky outcast into the powerful punch Troy had cocked back from his right arm.

  Now, now! It’s now or never!

  Andrick used the momentum of being thrust towards Troy, stone in hand, in a windmill action, circularly rotated the heavy tool in a three-hundred-sixty-degree motion, until the motion was obstructed by Troy’s skull. The crack Andrick heard was angelic. The power behind the weight of the hit visibly took its toll on Troy, as he immediately dropped Andrick’s shirt from his hand and began to stumble backward in awe. Andrick breathed in a heavily satisfying gasp of Alaskan air. Just at that moment, a cloud that had been blocking the crescent moonlight from shining, removed itself, revealing an actual dent above Troy’s left eye socket between the forehead and temple region. The visual stimulation caused every sense Andrick had to seize, all sound provided by nature fell to utter silence, as he gazed at the beautiful sight he had just created. An artist admiring his work, the moonlight exposed something that Andrick had not seen initially. After the strike to the head, while Troy had clearly been stumbling, Andrick had come to notice Troy’s mouth moving hysterically. Although the motion was occurring, any attempt at speaking had been a complete fail, as if the wires in his head that indicated Troy to use his voicebox, had shorted out.

  “Troy,” Andrick said calmly, “I just want to thank you.”

  Fear spread over the popular young man’s face. He recognized that he lost his ability to speak and his body was not moving as he probably was screaming for it to, internally. Troy’s knees buckled, becoming shorter than Andrick as the praise continued.

  “You see, you are one of the many people that has proven to me over the years that not everyone is good. Not everyone should be on this planet.” Andrick explained further. “There are over seven billion people on the planet currently. If you rape, you should die. If you hurt the weaker man for no reason, you should die. If your goal in life is to belittle and embarrass and emotionally attack people, well, I would say you fall into that same boat, Troy.”

  Troy, coughing in panic and still trembling at the loss of control at the situation, Andrick noticed a heavy change in the young man’s eyes. There was no longer any remanence of entitlement, false empathy, or any other of the sociopathic tendencies that Andrick seemed to be the only one to see. Troy’s eyes held nothing but fear. The urge to cry for help was painted on his face, along with blood from a gash originating within the dent in his skull. Troy Boatman spent years being a person that laughed at the pain of others. At that moment, he now realized he was going to endure something much worse.

  Andrick approached, trying to gauge how he would complete his task of extinguishing such a useless piece of shit like Troy from the Earth. With each step, Troy shook harder but was unable to do anything. He tried to raise his hands in defense but when doing so, he looked down at his left arm, which disappointed him to not only not raising to block any additional blows, but to start spasming uncontrollably. Andrick stopped a moment to see if Troy had been faking his way out of the situation but due to the severe blow to the head, not only did his left arm start to shake, but Troy’s whole body slowly joined in until he was in a full convulsion. Andrick knew he needed to see Troy’s light leave his eyes, his life light. He would not accept the weakness of the human body to steal that small joy from him. Andrick looked around, to ensure there had still been nobody spying on the scene, and then sprinted towards Troy on the ground.

  “Not gonna be that easy, Troy,” Andrick assured him, as he dragged the convulsing football player by the jacket and belt, towards the edge of the river. “I will refine things as time goes on, but again, I have to thank you for the experience. I was not truly sure this would give me the gratification I was hoping for. In fact, I was almost scared it would not. I thought I may have to go through a mediocre existence, never finding anything in this world to truly strive and put forth effort in to, until this moment. I have found my calling. You can rest easy, knowing you assisted the world in this great gift.”

  Andrick stepped into the steady current, dragging the fear-induced Troy with him. Setting him down a few feet into the creek’s flow, Andrick got on one knee and put his hands around each corner of the letterman jacket Troy had on, keeping the boy’s head just underwater enough to be able to soak in every moment of fear shown in his eyes. Andrick, not having sympathy for anyone for many years, just simply tried to conjure up an idea of how Troy must have been feeling at that moment. The young man’s face showed a panic, even throughout the filter of darkness and sheet of moving water. Andrick felt a slight struggle but any attempt to reach up and grab Andrick to stop the unspeakable act had no bearing on the result. Andrick knew better than to put his hands around Troy’s neck, reminding himself of forensics and markings, when the body eventually was found. Andrick chose to be content with the outcome he was participating in, panting euphorically until he saw the last bubbles exit Troy’s nose and mouth, and the light finally fading to black in his once-vibrant green eyes.

  Andrick arrived at a quarter to seven in the parking lot of Rucker’s. He told himself to refrain from immediately texting the number on the crumbled note, in an attempt to not come off as desperate. Andrick was not a huge drinker, even to the current day, but would nurse a few beers throughout the night to go unnoticed among the gaggle of drunks he surrounded among himself. He ordered a Coors Light bottle from the bar, paid cash, then made his way into a corner close to the billiards tables. Most of the club members loved to play pool, usually for money, and knew sooner or later the group would take over that part of the bar anyhow. He let his eyes dart from left to right, trying to size up any alternates in case his plan would go South later with the gym couple. Andrick got lost in thought until a waitress walked by his high-top table he secured in the corner, asking him if he was ready for another beer. Looking down, Andrick had taken down three-quarters of the beer. Surprised, he agreed to have another drink, and again, paid in cash.

  “Hey, Easy Rider, you want to get a game going?” A belligerent man spoke to Andrick from the direction of the pool tables.

  “I am just waiting for some friends, thanks,” Andrick replied.

  Andrick smiled at the waitress as she left with her payment and was ready to continue evaluating the human livestock until he was rudely interrupted once again by the intoxicated man with the pool cue in hand.

  “C’mon, don’t be a sissy boy. I know most of you bikers are just dressing the part, but I won’t bite.”

  “I appreciate the offer.” Andrick politely replied, trying to ignore the urge to snap the fat fuck’s neck right then and there in the bar. “There are a ton of us…cosplayers, showing up very soon. I am sure you will have your hands full with more games than you can handle shortly.”

  The rotund, poorly hygienic man made a sound of disgust at Andrick’s reply. “Fucking pussies, man. I can’t get over how hard you guys try to look and act cool, but when push comes to shove, you ain’t got no balls.�
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  Andrick, never letting his emotions get the best of him, paused to take in the whole situation.

  “You passing through…Richie?” Andrick asked, tapping on his left breast pocket, to indicate the emblem on the drunken disgrace of a man’s uniform shirt he was wearing.

  “I’ve been a trucker for over twenty years and every dirty shithole I come to grab a beer in, I run into some little bitch like you,” Richie replied.

  Truckers had been like fast food to Andrick. He preferred to scout and meticulously find someone he felt deserved to be rid of the world. He liked the preparation and care of the kill, almost as much as the act itself. It was comparable to going to the grocery store and buying fresh ingredients and creating a beautiful home-cooked meal. It was not always an option to go to the store and prepare something gourmet every single day though and sometimes, you had to settle for greasy tacos from the drive-thru. Richie looked like he had enough grease attached to the spare tire around his abdomen.

  Well, well, this is as good a piece of shit as any to clear off the planet if Hercules and Tyra Banks stands me up, Andrick contemplated.

  “You know, Richie, I guess one game can’t hurt.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Earth to Sisto,” Ama spoke, alerting Sisto to jerk his head up from the wooden conference table.

  “Huh?” Sisto replied, not sure what year it was or how he got to his current location.

  “I texted you and called you a ton of times when I got to the front of the building. You never replied so I just swung over to Motown Smokehouse and grabbed you a sandwich to go.”

  “Fuck me,” Sisto said, finally coming out of his daze. “What time is it?”

  “Meeting starts in ten minutes,” Ama replied as she handed him a paper bag with a vinyl record inked on it with the logo of the popular BBQ chain.

  Sisto peeked in the bag, “Smokey Robinson?”

  “Of course.”

  Sisto must have looked like a child that was still half asleep on Christmas morning. His eyes were not fully open but felt his face start to hurt from the smile of confirmation from the best damn sandwich he had discovered in the last five years being right in front of him. The Smokey Robinson was an eighteen-hour smoked brisket sandwich between buttery poppyseed Hawaiian bread. Starting on the bottom was a jalapeño coleslaw, then slabs of the glorious meat, homemade cheese crisps for extra crunch, and topped with a creamy horseradish mayo. If that didn’t show off ‘The Tracks of My Tears’, Sisto didn’t know what would. He thanked Ama before getting enthralled with the sandwich and had a moment of complete bliss as he took his first bite.

  Sonofafuckingbitch, that’s incredible, Sisto confirmed to himself.

  “You didn’t get anything?” Sisto asked, realizing there was no second bag.

  “I sat right there and ate in peace while you slept,” Ama pointed to a chair on the opposite end of where he fell asleep.

  Sisto frowned at the jab, causing Ama to crack her serious tone.

  “I am just kidding,” She giggled. “You looked exhausted. Figured you could use the rest. How is SWAT going? Test is next week?”

  “It’s going. Norton is a prick, and I don’t think any of the team members like or respect me. Also, I fucked up pretty bad today on my last on-site training. Aside from that, it’s going really well.”

  It had been Ama’s turn to frown. “Jesus. Sorry.”

  “Bell didn’t by chance explain to you what this case is about, did he?”

  “Are you kidding? I told Bell my phone was finicky the first time I met him and unless it was life or death to email me only.”

  Damn, Sisto thought. He wished he had thought of that way back when he first met Bell, as he rummaged through the bag to find some sea salt and cracked pepper onion rings hiding at the bottom.

  “How’s your day job going?” Sisto asked through a mouthful of brisket.

  “They pay me, I analyze. Not exciting but I can’t live on this consultant money alone.”

  Ama was an analyst for a medical billing company called Serenity Medical. Sisto didn’t have health insurance so he was not sure how important they were in the medical billing world, but from the way Ama describes it, they are doing well enough to pay her a good salary. She had told him once that she loved numbers and if she could use it to help people work around their billing issues during a time of sickness, the boredom was worth it. It made Sisto have more respect for her knowing she only did the job because of a desire to help people. In the back of his mind, it resembled a saying his father always said to him as a child. The motto Sisto had embedded in his soul, causing him to take his unwanted gift of The Reels and use it to help the citizens of Saratoga City. Any time Sisto or his older brother, Eddie, were told to do something and they complained, they could bet on their dad popping up behind them to reiterate his mantra.

  “You don’t do good things to get rewarded, you do them because it’s the right thing to do.”

  A simple saying, by no means a phrase coined by Sam Sisto himself but was something that always went hand in hand when Sisto had been thinking about his dad.

  “You eating bar-b-que? It smells like you two fucked a chimney in the ass.”

  Reese Culpepper interjected her crude comment in the air, breaking Sisto from the mantra he desperately needed to repeat to himself right at that moment.

  Bell shut the door at five after seven, as the entire team, minus Winter Pierce, were getting seated and ready for info on the next mission. Looking around the table, he had grown to like most of the team. The only one that seldomly rubbed Sisto the wrong way was Reese Culpepper. It was not because of the blasphemous statement she made about his Smokey Robinson sandwich. It was deeper than that. When Sisto looked at her, he saw a woman with the name of a beautiful actress but had been determined to walk and talk like she had a bigger dick than he did. She was always wisecracking and talking shit. She never singled Sisto out more than anyone else in the unit, so it did strike him odd why he never felt comfortable around her.

  It wasn’t until the meeting started and Bell greeted everyone that a lightbulb went off in Sisto’s head. Culpepper was the younger, female version of Bell. She acted like everyone on the team was an idiot, had no filter when she spoke, and she had her head so far up Bell’s ass while trying to get recognized. Seeing her across from him at that moment, he had to take in her facial features, as he was sure as soon as the meeting was over, she would be back up the veteran detective’s keister.

  “Got a lot to cover, everyone. Hope you hit the restroom already.” Bell stated as he pulled out a folder full of papers.

  “I do have a sensitive bladder, Detective, but I will focus, in hope of not interrupting the presentation.” Toby LeNard replied to Bell’s rhetorical statement.

  Toby LeNard was one of the lead forensic unit members on the late shift at Saratoga City Forensics, SCF. He was allowed temporarily to do administrative work during the day shift for SCF so he could work on any leads that needed to get ran through the task force. Sisto stared as Toby looked around to realize Bell had not actually wanted a reply.

  “Sorry,” Toby stated softly.

  Both Culpepper and Bell shook their heads at the same time, confirming again why Sisto didn’t enjoy Culpepper’s presence.

  “Moving forward,” Bell plunged past the awkwardness. “First of all, Captain Jenkins wanted to relay his gratitude. He got a call from Mayor Maitland praising the last case we closed.”

  “Is that why we were called here? We getting raises?” Detective First Grade Dakota Mitchell asked.

  Mitchell was a good fit for the team. She was a smart, capable detective, and was looking to catch criminals, not worrying about the politics of it all. Mitchell was quiet, but not shy. Sisto had noticed she took in everything, realizing half of being a good detective was simply listening. She was a tall, slender but extremely fit black woman in her mid to late thirties. Sisto never met her before Project: Corrine, but knew the name. She had been an al
l-star track runner at Mustain’s Green River High School. She had been at least a handful of years older than him as he thought he had remembered his older brother, Eddie, talking about her back when he had been involved in high school sports. She had a full ride to any college she wanted but instead joined the Navy for six years, until returning home to care for her father who had been dying of Leukemia. Fast forward a dozen years and she was a highly respected detective that was left alone to do her work for the most part.

  “I fucking wish,” Bell replied.

  “Shame,” Mitchell retorted.

  “Apparently, the FBI has been tracking a country-wide M.O. that could be heading this way,” Bell explained. “Starting in Oregon, there have been fourteen confirmed murders in a very systematic way along with cities where the I-83 passes through. We are working parallel to the FBI investigation, as they claim they don’t need us. The mayor eats up every piece of publicity he can, so while the lead investigators won’t officially bring us in, they are willing to let us work it on our own.”

  “So, they want us to be a human net in case it slips through their hands?” Officer Wallace asked.

  Officer Jordan Wallace was a welcome face to the team. Sitting across from him in plain clothes, Sisto remembered the numerous times he pulled up to the Corden Palisades to act as a personal chauffeur. Wallace never griped about it or treated Sisto unkindly and Sisto grew to realize the proper young officer was as smart and driven as any of the people sitting around the same table.

  “I don’t know what they think, Officer Wallace, because I have zero fucks to give about their feelings.” Bell addressed. “We have proven over and over again that this unit can get results. If the FBI wants to learn that the hard way, then fuck them.”

  “Fuck’em,” Culpepper echoed as she slammed her open palm to the table in excitement.

  While Wallace was too polite to roll his eyes, Sisto noticed Dakota Mitchell shake off the annoyance at Culpepper’s brown-nosing. The observation caused a smile in Sisto’s exterior to crack through until he felt an elbow from his right. He looked over to see Ama had witnessed the same events that Sisto had seen unfold. She had always been observant and able to read him like a book. The look she gave him at that moment was one of exhausted acceptance with a hint of a plea to not say anything that may prolong the meeting. He smirked at her and turned back to Bell.